It flies in the air
To and fro
One hit to another
One smile and another;

The joy is simple
I can see it from above
Maybe they’re connected
Somewhere else in time;

I remember the time
When all that mattered
Was which crayon was better
And whose backpack was brighter;

We yearn to grow up
We yearn to go back
We want to be free
We want to be told;

Something’s not right
What the fuck man.

(I find the use of the expletive necessary to support and finalise the overall frustration; if something is real, there is no need for romanticization or some induced form of exaggeration. Sometimes it is okay to just write as it is, incoherent and hardly with a form.)


One love song
Can be one too lonely

One phone call
Can be one too fussy

One heart broken
Can be one too many

One day
we’re gonna get so high.

(If you don’t mind, the quality of the things I write has been falling. It’s a trap I find myself in.)


The line to thread is thin
Between not giving a damn and being relaxed
Often we mistake one for the other
Sometimes by mistake sometimes on purpose;

Perhaps some things aren’t meant to be
Yet we try (hard) anyway;

Queer but its true
With no rhythm or rhyme

Oh where is this heading.